


What If I Say I Shall Not Wait!

by Somedeepmystery



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Arguments, Crying, Established Relationship, F/M, I'm crying, Mushiness, Smut, alcohol related consent issues, everyone is crying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 04:56:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14804786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedeepmystery/pseuds/Somedeepmystery
Summary: Illya's return from Moscow is delayed and he finds Gaby has been deeply affected by it. Desperate not to lose her, he does whatever he can to keep her.





	What If I Say I Shall Not Wait!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Turningleaf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turningleaf/gifts).



> oh look, Emily Fecking Dickinson again. (Really want to make a joke about putting the Dick in Dickinson but I won't because it's crass and probably already been done before.)
> 
> Hi, I'm sorry for all this smut. It's terrible, no one likes it, I'm not sure what is wrong with me. Anyway! I had this idea on my last hike and I almost came and told you right away but I'm glad I didn't because it turned into this. :p

 

 

 

 

 

He finds Gaby glaring at him from the middle of his living room rug.

The relief that settles into him at the sight of her, the peace of knowing he is finally, truly _home_ , is wiped away in an instant. She moves toward him, and he sighs, ready to pull her into his arms, but she brushes past him and heads toward the door.

“Good,” she says brusquely. “You’re alive. Now I can go home.”

“What?” he asks, confusion denting his brow as he turns to watch her grab up her coat. There’s a tumbler in her hand, still half-full, and he begins to understand. “Gaby, _wait_.”

She locks onto him with a look that would scorch his skin if it could touch him. “I am finished _waiting_.”

He takes a deep breath. He is late, was detained unexpectedly by his superiors, no forewarning, no chance to alert her to his changed plans. No time to even try to reach out to her. When had she started drinking, he wonders? The first hour, or the fifth?

“Let me explain.”

“I don’t want your explanations,” she says, struggling into her coat, trying to pull it on without giving up the glass. He takes it from her, and she slides her arm into the sleeve, then snatches it back, taking a huge swallow before continuing. The slight sway to her stance tells him the drinking started around hour three. At least she’d had that much faith in him. “There is nothing to be said.”

“Gaby,” he pleads quietly, soft and full of affection. “It was not me. They held me back, it was only power pla–”

“You think that changes anything?” she demands, stepping back from him, stumbling a little. “That is _exactly_ the point!” He reaches for her, but she bats his hand away. Her voice changes as she gains some distance. “I mean, what did we think we were doing anyway?” she asks almost absently.

Illya frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I _mean,_ ” she hisses at him, “this!” She waves a hand between them. “Us, thinking we could be together!”

Illya takes a step toward her. “We _can_ be together,” he insists. “We _are_ together.”

Her scoff is buried in her glass as she goes to take another drink. “No, we are not,” she says. “We are just two people, _fucking_ ... this isn’t a relationship. It _can’t_ be.”

Her crass way of referring to their love life bites at him, and he taps at his thigh before reining it in. She was scared. That is all this is.

“You know that is not true,” he says. “I _love_ you.”

Gaby looks back at him with wide eyes, so dark in the dim light of the room. The flash of pain he sees there before she hides it cuts him to the core. “Love? It’s just a construct,” she says. “A lie we tell ourselves to excuse our stupid decisions.”

“ _No_ ,” he says. “I do not think you really believe that.”

“Whatever,” she maintains. “I’m going home.”

He sighs. “At least let me take you. See you back safely.”

“No thank you!.” She shoots back the remainder of her glass. “I drove my car.”

“What?” He straightens, another worry joining in with all the rest.

“Goodbye, Illya,” she says. “I will see you at work.”

“You are not driving yourself,” he insists. “You are drunk.”

She makes an annoyed sound with her tongue and reaches for the doorknob. “You are not my boss.”

He steps forward and wraps his arms around her, pinning her own arms to her sides. She shouts and flails, kicking her legs, but his grip is sure. He sets her back down in the middle of the room.

She pushes at his chest as she tries to maintain balance, then backs away. “Stop it, Illya!” she says. “Don’t you understand? I am breaking up with you!”

The words cut him, slicing open his heart, leaving it gaping. He inhales, accepts the pain, and moves past it. He has to keep her safe first. Then he can go lick his wounds. “I am still not letting you leave.”

Goggling at him, Gaby takes a small side step. “Excuse me?”

“I said, _I am not letting you leave_.”

She shakes her head. Another spark of pain flashes in her eyes and she turns away. “I need another drink.”

Illya swoops past her and snatches up the vodka bottle. “ _No._ ”

She glares. “Give that to me!”

“It is _my_ vodka,” he says. “And apparently, you are no longer my girlfriend.”

Her nostrils flare. “I am leaving!”

He steps in front of her, blocking her path. “Again, _no_.”

She snarls. “How do you expect to keep me here!?” she demands.

“Bribery,” he says. “But force if necessary.”

She huffs. “As if you have anything I want.”

“Don’t I?” He steps in a little closer, arms folded over his chest, emphasising his biceps as he looks at her carefully. It is a calculated risk and perhaps not fully ethical, but keeping her alive is his top priority and his Gaby is a very randy drunk.

She pulls back to look into his eyes, searching them. He doesn’t have to pretend to want her, he _always_ wants her; he just has to mask the pain she is causing him.

She sucks in a breath and her pupils dilate. He should feel guilty using his knowledge against her, but he doesn’t. He tells himself, again, that it is to keep her safe, but he knows _all_ of his reasons aren’t that altruistic. If he can make her stay, they can talk in the morning when she is sober.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she insists, but she _does_ ; it’s there in her eyes as she drags them over his body. It has been a month since they’ve seen each other, and she has to be feeling it at least as keenly as he is.

“I will take you to bed,” he says slowly.

“ _Put_ me to bed?” she scoffs, but moves in a little closer.

Illya shakes his head. “I will take you to my bed and make love to you.”

She jerks away. “No!”

He reaches for her, pulls her into his arms, his heart pounding in fear and need. The need to keep her close, the fear of losing her, in _any_ way.

“I will _fuck_ you,” he growls into her ear, and she gasps. “I will make you come so many times you will forget you ever wanted to leave me.”

She goes limp in his arms. “Guuuhhh...” The moan escapes, husky and dark, then she pulls herself together, pushing on his chest until he lets her go. She brushes her hair from her forehead, and he watches her carefully. She looks him over, then lifts her chin, stubborn, haughty—two things he loves about her.

“You can certainly _try_ ,” she says with a disdain so thin it would be laughable in another situation. “But you will have to catch me first.” She darts for the door, and he almost doesn’t react, the move is so unexpected. Then, he strides forward on legs twice the length of hers and lifts her up, tossing her over his shoulder.

An indignant sound escapes her, and she pounds her fists to his back, his shoulders as he carries her to his bedroom. She struggles, and he smacks her bottom without thinking, She stills with a soft squeak. When he tosses her on the bed, she leans back on her elbows to stare back at him.

His room is dim, only illuminated by the street outside, but his bed is freshly made, his clock has been set to the right time. Everything is free of dust. He focuses on the woman on his bed instead of the implications.

“What are you going to do?” she asks as he crawls onto the bed with her.

“Exactly what I said.” He looks her over, waits. She stares back for a moment, then starts pulling off her coat.

Her chin goes up again, and he really wants to kiss her there, bite gently and see if he can taste her stubbornness. “Well, like I said, you can _try_.” She licks her lip, and he watches the pink point of her tongue.

He takes her coat and tosses it away. “Now, I am going to kiss you.” His voice is deep, rough with wanting her, missing her, but he goes slow, gives her the chance to reject him.

“Alright then,” she replies, and then his mouth is on hers. She hums into it before grabbing the back of his head and holding him there to kiss him back. Using his height as leverage, he presses her back until she is laid out on his bed beneath him.

He takes his time with her mouth, tasting her after so long away. She mewls softly, and he takes advantage, slipping his tongue inside to kiss her, taste her deeper. He groans as her tongue glides against his. He has missed her. His kiss softens with the bout of affection, and she bites his lip, drawing blood.

He yanks back from her, startled. She smirks up at him and starts unbuttoning her blouse.

With a growl, he dives back in, biting and sucking at the skin of her throat, pushing fingers into her hair so he can control the angle of her head as he takes her mouth again in a harsh, claiming kiss. She moans into it, and it pulses through him, the sound of her pleasure spurring his own.

Her hands finish with her blouse, and she brings them up to grasp at his head, lifting to kiss him back. Then she pushes down on the crown of his head, and he would laugh at her obvious directive if everything didn’t feel so dire.

He kisses his way down her throat and over her collarbone, then pauses at the edge of her camisole to nuzzle at her skin. At her huff of impatience, he slides a hand inside the soft lace and cups her breast, lifting it out to the light.

Gaby murmurs something, shifting at the touch, and he draws his thumb over the rose-tinted peak to make her gasp. Her hands in his hair flex and flutter down to his neck as he closes his mouth over the nipple and sucks gently. He gives keen attention to her breasts, moving from one to the other, leaving them wet from his mouth to cool in the night air.

She whines and then shifts her shoulders as if to dislodge him.

“I thought you were going to fuck me?” she snaps, and he sucks her nipple a little deeper in response. She cries out, bucking under him, and he pulls away.

“I said I was going to make you come,” he returns, looking up at her from beneath his lashes. He intends to do just that and he won’t let her anger or her impatience interfere. He knows her body, knows the best ways to please it, knows that the reason she is rushing him on is because his mouth on her breasts brings her a deep satisfaction she’s never been able to explain to him.

He also knows that if he’s going to accomplish his goal, he needs her body as ready as he can make it.

At his words, Gaby makes a needy, little sound and relents, lifting a breast up to his mouth in offering. He returns to his strategy, amping her body up with tried and true methods that make her writhe and pant for air. When she is mindless, he finally moves on, skirting down, pushing up the camisole to kiss her belly and reach the fastening of her pedal pushers.

They are gone in a flash of movement, thrown over his shoulder without care. His full focus, all his brain can handle and stay in control, is on giving her what he said he would.

Her panties were obviously chosen for him, an expensive pair with lace and ribbons, a deep orange – his favorite color on her. The realization twists like a knife in his gut when mixed with the disaster that has been their reunion, and he ducks down quickly to tug them off before she can use his hesitance as an excuse to leave. Then she is bare before him, and he dares to take a moment to memorize her, catalogue her image in case this is the last he will ever see.

“Illya,” she demands, but there is hunger in her restlessness.

Eliciting a cry from her, he spreads her legs and settles between them. She yanks on his shirt, and he follows the cue, tugging the navy turtleneck off over his head and tossing it away with the rest. Then he moves in, kissing the soft skin of her inner thigh before laying his open mouth over her folds with a moan of pleasure.

He doesn’t draw it out, knowing this is a long road and doing so could make her sore. Instead, he goes for what he knows will bring her off the quickest, a flick of his tongue, a pull with soft lips.

Gaby’s hand shoves into the hair at the top of his head where she knows it is just long enough to get a hold on. She tugs at him, rolls her hips, seeking more but hindering his progress. He loops an arm over her hips and pins her down, sliding his tongue into just the right place to have her whining and offering up swears in German.

His tongue strives on, working her over with steady, knowing strokes until she is jerking against his hold and shouting in a volume the neighbors will not fail to hear. He follows her through it, knowing when to gentle, when to push to spike an aftershock, and when she comes back down, he starts all over again, pushing her through to a second orgasm and then a third, sliding his fingers into her at the end to make that final fall a reality. She thrashes in the throes of it, her body arching off the bed and glistening in the street light coming in through his window.

She is panting as he pulls away, licking his lips and watching her cautiously. She looks up at him, eyes his tongue and her gaze darkens. “You think you are done?” she asks and lifts up to her elbows again. “The deal was, you fuck me, Illya.” Her eyes trail down to where he is hard and straining against his slacks. “I think you want to.”

Yes, he wants her, badly. He’s so hard it’s well past painful, and his entire body is buzzing with arousal but he hadn’t intended to go that far. She is too drunk; it doesn’t feel right. “Gaby,” he begins, and her gaze shutters.

“I guess we’re done here,” she says and moves toward the edge of the bed. His hand snakes out to grab her ankle, pulling her back underneath him.

“No.”

“Then what are you going to do?” Her chin lifts again, jutting toward him in mulish defiance.

He seizes that chin and kisses her, _hard,_ then reaches down to unbuckle his belt. Her eyes drop to watch him. He pulls the leather free, drops it to the side and starts on his slacks. Before he is even fully naked, her greedy hands are sneaking into his boxers and wrapping around him, making him groan.

He rolls onto his back to kick off the entire kit, and Gaby is on him while they are still around his ankles. She takes him in hand, stroking upward once before taking him into her mouth.

A hoarse shout tears from his throat at the surprise, the electric stab of desire that bolts through him. She sucks sloppily at him, then licks him with her tongue, circling it around the head. “Ga-byyy,” he moans, and she sucks one more time before climbing on top of him.

“Wait,” he says, grabbing at her hips, his brain still processing the overload she’d just administered. “ _Wait..._ ”

“I told you,” she says, rising up and placing him at her entrance, “I am finished with waiting.”

She slides down onto him and his ‘no’ turns into a long, desperate moan. She lifts up, then slides down again, taking him deeper, and he is lost to it, his hands gripping her hips to help her in her rhythm, flexing his ass to thrust up into the rise and fall of her.

He has never been bare inside her before, and the sensation is exquisite, perfection, and it’s that which reminds him why he had asked her to wait. He groans and tries to still her hips, but they are slippery with sweat and she breaks free.

“Gaby,” he pleads. “Stop–” He gasps as she strikes her hips to his, twisting at the end and making herself cry out. “We need condo– _ah!_ ” He throws his head back as pleasure sluices down his spine to tuck up beneath his balls like burning embers.

“Oh god, _Illya_ ,” Gaby keens. Her hands are braced to his chest, and she’s found that perfect rhythm, rolling her hips to ride him, while rubbing just right against his pelvic bone. He watches the ecstasy flush her face, her eyes fall to half-mast as she looks at him. He sees the orgasm ripple up through her body, stares in awe as she throws back her head and shouts with it, clenching her jaw as it continues, and making soft, little gasps in the aftermath. It is all he can do not to come right along with her.

She falls forward and kisses him, her lips relaxed and clumsy. “More,” she pleads. “Illya, fuck me, please, I need you, _I need you!_ ”

In the end, he cannot resist her. He rolls them over and pushes back inside with a hard thrust. She bucks up and cries out, _“Yes!”_ So he does it again. Thrust after thrust, he fucks into her, giving her whatever she asks for. “Faster, harder... oh gott, _harder_ ... yes, Illya, _Illyaillya_ , yes yes _yeeeeees_!”

Her whole body goes taut beneath him as she comes again, and he feels her inner muscles gripping him, fluttering over him, tight and pulsing. He pushes into it, keeping her there as long as he can, then, with the last remaining intelligence in his brain, he pulls out of her, wraps himself in his fist and collapses on top of her as he comes in his hand.

His head is nestled between her breasts as he gasps for air, his body still shuddering. She raises her head and looks down at him, her hair a mess, skin flushed, eyes angry, and fear floods him, wiping away any speck of afterglow.

“I am _completely unsatisfied!_ ” she declares, then falls back onto the pillows. Illya swallows, pressing his face into her chest as he tries to stay calm.

He pulls himself up with one hand to look at her face, more begging and excuses at the ready, but her eyes are closed, her face soft, relaxed.

“Gaby?” he asks, his voice tremulous with nerves and the post-orgasmic strain. She doesn’t respond except to sigh and then snore softly.

She has passed out.

Illya drops his head to her chest in an overwhelming mix of guilt and relief. He stays there for several moments, breathing in the scent of her and trying to keep the desperate panic at bay.

She was going to leave him...

Finally, he pushes himself off the bed and goes to the bathroom to clean up, splashing water on his face and not looking at himself in the mirror. When he returns to the bedroom, Gaby has turned onto her side, tucking her hands beneath her cheek, her knees pulled up. He watches her for a long moment, his heart bleeding out inside his chest, then gives into his selfish needs and climbs in beside her, pulling her into the curve of his body. If one last night is all he gets, he will take it, even if it isn’t his to take.

When he wakes in the morning, his bed is empty. Gaby is gone.

He spreads his hand out over her pillow and then squeezes it into a fist, burying his face in the mattress as he grits his teeth, anguish nearly engulfing him.

A clatter of dishware from outside the room draws his attention, and he sits up sharply in bed, looking out into the empty hallway. He waits a moment longer, listens more intently, and hears the gurgle of the coffee maker as it comes to life.

He’s out of bed and yanking on pajama bottoms before another second has passed. He rushes out through the living room and stops at the kitchen door when he sees Gaby standing at the stove. She is wearing his shirt, her legs bare... and she’s still there.

“Gaby?”

She whips around, spatula in hand. For a moment, they just stare at each other.

Guilt pulses through him, humiliation at his desperation rising up to meet it.

“Illya...” she begins, but he cuts her off.

“No, Gaby,” he says. “There is no need. What I did, it was... unacceptable. You were drunk... I should not have... but–” he shook his head, cutting off the excuse. It didn’t matter why. What he had done was wrong.

“ _Illya._ ”

“And you can leave if you want to,” he explains. “Leave _me._ If – I can accept if you want this to be over. I understand. But please...” he feels the lump in his throat trying to cut off his air. “Please, do not ask me to stop loving you. I can’t...” he shakes his head again. “I can’t _do_ that. Loving you is like breathing to me.”

He realizes he is crying, a tear rolling down his cheek as though he is a child and he drops his head to hide his shame.

Then, Gaby is there, wrapping her arms around him and jamming her face into his chest. She squeezes him like a vise, and it’s then he feels the sob that wracks her small frame. Fear bursts open inside him again at the realization. What damage has he done to actually drive her to tears!

He takes her shoulders, ready to beg forgiveness, but she looks up at him, her dark eyes red-rimmed, her cheeks wet. He cups her face, bowing over her, and a tear falls from his face to mix with hers.

“ _Please_ ,” she whispers, voice catching. “Please, don’t _ever_ stop loving me.”

It is a moment before the meaning of the words register in his brain. Her hands clutch his cheeks and pull him down into a kiss. Her lips are tender on his, but it is still a breath before he understands and kisses her back.

“Gaby?” It’s said into her mouth as they part for breath.

“I love you, Illya,” she says. “I’m sorry I was cruel. I was _scared_ , I was stu–” she doesn’t get to finish because he is sweeping her up into his arms to kiss her more deeply. Her feet dangle off the floor as he supports her weight his arms, slanting his mouth over hers again and again until she is laughing and kissing him back.


End file.
